


The Bog

by IntravenousDollhouse



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chubstuck, Forced Feeding, Gen, Horror, Horrorterror, Other, Stuffing, Tentacles, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntravenousDollhouse/pseuds/IntravenousDollhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Egbert, an independent detective of both regular and paranormal activity, is drawn into a mysterious and violent case by enigmatic twins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bog

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Homestuck. 
> 
> Warnings: Possible triggers, forced-feeding/stuffing, horror, tentacles, AU.
> 
> Pairings: Only if you have a lovely imagination. ; )

***

An inconsolable boy -- only five years of age -- weeps alone on a smooth, bonelike length of driftwood. He's finally found his dearest companion, a cat named Sonia, who went missing three weeks ago, dead in a snare of moss leading into the bog. Half her body is still absent, but the bloated contortion of her soft, tabby face is recognizable despite its state. 

She's not the only cat scattered across the silvery mud in fateful mutilation. The boy, in his dismay and youth, can only count up to seven corpses -- but in truth there are hundreds littering the area. Some have been discarded on shore. Others are still submerged in the nebulous bog-water. All are small felines; pets and strays.

The town in which the boy lives is underpopulated. There are simply too many deceased cats present to be matched with local families. The scene is impossible. It becomes an iconic nightmare for the boy -- and a blight upon the small town; an event that's even remembered seventeen years later.

 

***

 

The little boy, of course, is you. 

Your name is John Egbert, and you are twenty-two years old. The office you spend most of your time in is dedicated to a minuscule private investigation bureau you inherited from your granddad. Though the business was intended for your father, he abandoned it in pursuit of a baking career once you reached an age suitable for management.

In consigning the trade to you, he made a wise decision. Since you can remember, you've been fascinated with all facets of paranormal activity. Though most cases you encounter are in no way preternatural, the occasional ghoulish mystery will nestle itself inside the stack of letters you have to contend with.

Today, instead of reading a letter carefully penned in cheap ink, you are met with a pair of clients in person. They are twins, and appear to be the same age as you. Both beautiful -- the girl is acerbic, and the boy is aloof. They're each painted in a spectral shade of white; albinos. You've never seen them in town before.

The girl gives you a tiny, confident smile as she gracefully settles upon the sofa parallel to your desk. Her brother remains upright, but leans against her chosen seat with an almost combative stance. His wire-rimmed spectacles are amber-tinted and they obscure his irises. The effect is unnerving, as you're uncertain as to whether or not he's focused on you.

"This is our first visit to Tollund." The young lady speaks first; hands folded in her lap.

"Oh! Well, there's a lot to see around here, but the weather's pretty gloomy." You reply cheerily, agitated by the concept of oppressive silence.

The boy laughs softly. His voice is a compendium of slick and sizzling chemicals. "We're fond of gray skies; they help soothe the constant burn." He makes a brief indication toward the sheer violet veil his sister wears.

She raises a contentious eyebrow, and you know it's not meant for you.

"Um, in that case, you're in the right place!" The meeting is more than a bit tense. You hope to be done with it soon.

"Once business is through, it would be lovely if you'd spare time to show us around. We could make an afternoon of it."

You can't help but agree. 

The girl leans forward. "If we had another option, we'd have taken it. This town is rather far from home. But you see..."

She withdraws a faded newspaper article. It's from a droll tabloid paper you'd unwittingly accepted an interview from months ago.

"...You have a specific reputation."

"Did you two come here to talk about my paranormal work?" Your voice betrays inappropriate excitement. The twins do not seem offended. 

An esoteric smirk plays with the boy's bloodless lips. "That's right."

The article's vague portrait of you is printed above a caption. The words have been framed by a thick band of morose red ink. Your eyes flicker to the boy, who is no longer smiling. You don't need to re-read the caption. At the time, you didn't want to broach the subject -- that has not changed.

"Our mother has gone missing."

Your hands quiver. The involuntary movement does nothing to bolster your self-confidence. 

"I don't know what I can do to help."

"Cats."

"Pardon?"

"Our mother had a research lab filled with cats. All sorts of cats -- some strays, some adopted from the pet-store. She must have had, hm, how many cats, Rose?"

"Close to thirty-seven."

It's too late to escape the inevitable progression of this discussion. You glance toward the heavy oak door with your surname inscribed deep into the wood. This is your duty. Your responsibility. If you don't help them, certainly no one will.

"Alright," you begin, assuming a calm expression though your heart stutters with fear, "what happened to her cats?"

"They all drowned one night."

"I'm very sorry to --"

"In the house."

The girl's intonation does not change. She is simply stating a fact. 

"I-in the house? So, you mean, just...without any water?"

"Mother found water in the lungs of each corpse. Mr. Egbert, this happened in a single night. There is no possible way this could have been a crime committed by any human." 

"We often stay up late, working with our mother in her laboratory. At three o' clock we went to bed. The cats were alive and well. By six o' clock, they had all died. There is no explanation for it."

"So, how does that fit into your mother's disappearance?" A persistent and morsicant pain flutters through your heart with spite. 

"She traced the death of her beloved pets to the incident this town is mildly infamous for." The girl -- Rose -- glances downward. Her countenance is meek, pitiable. You want to believe she's honest in her premature grieving; but you don't.

The boy steps forward. You still haven't heard his name, and proper introductions weren't given. 

"Mr. Egbert --"

"John." You hope to remedy the situation.

"John. Will you look for our mother here? At this point, you're essentially our last hope in finding her."

There's an odd element to his voice. It's as though he's condensing his vocabulary; translating his manner of speaking into a mellifluous, discordant form of poetry. Rose's diction, in comparison, is very constrained and almost distressingly elegant. You feel their dire expectations -- their unrelenting judgment. 

"Of course. I'll do my absolute best!" You hope the illusion of intrepidity is convincing.

"Thank you, John. Dave, perhaps it would be polite to pay initially? After all, this is an unusual case we're presenting."

"Not to worry, Miss! I'm sure I can handle this mystery. At the very least, I'll dig up all the information there is to find; no problem!"

Dave hands you an archaic pouch. It's shaped like a teardrop, and fashioned from black velvet. Swirling gold symbols add interest to the piece; you're uncertain of their linguistic origins. That sort of subject has never been your specialty. 

"That's yours to keep. Inside is the money, in addition to an item our mother found in the belly of her youngest kitten. It could prove to be useful, as a clue."

You cringe as the drawstrings are loosened beneath your fingertips. A strong scent pervades the room. It fills your mind with unbidden images. The butchered bodies of kittens are smeared across sterile linoleum. Intermingled with their soft, delicate limbs are those of humans -- of children? Yes. 

The vision is ephemeral; dissolving into immediate disbelief and vague confusion. Your brain instantly rationalizes the occurrence, and helps you forget. Yet you find your fingers curled around a ropy, earthlike object. 

"Are you alright, John?" Rose's silvery, cordial voice stirs your soul into a seductive brew of dusky awareness.

You laugh softly; nervously. "Yes, I'm fine. Just feeling a little lightheaded. Didn't eat breakfast, rushed to work; I'm sure you know the feeling!"

She smiles distantly. "I'm sure I do."

"We should be on our way, Rose. Let's leave the young, dauntless detective to his work." Dave escorts his sister to the door, allowing the cruel, ironic flirtation to dangle above you.

"You can't even begin to imagine how grateful we are." Rose waves as she exits behind her brother. In that moment, you realize what's unique about her hands. Each nail is painted onto flesh in a careful lilac hue. The facade is an arbitrary appeasement; in actuality, Rose does not possess fingernails.

 

***

 

The murky dawn welcomes with you slick, hungry tendrils. You're exhausted. Before adjourning to bed the previous evening, you wandered to your favorite dinner theater. It's the least popular theater in town, but it always manages to put you in good spirits. However, though the show was as raucous and exploitative as ever, your mood could not be improved. When you did succumb to a frail semblance of sleep, it was riddled with nightmares.

Before a typical case, you'd stop inside your favorite coffee shop, and order an enormous canteen of searing black coffee. Since birth, your father has subjected you to bleak multitudes of saccharine confectionery -- it's this history that effectively prohibited any development of a sweet tooth.

Today, you don't entertain caffeine's substantial allure. This case has possessed you. Now that you're in its enthrall, your only option is to hastily unravel the mystery, and subsequently be rid of it.

You pass the only hotel in town, glancing briefly upwards to examine the orderly grid of grimy windows. What might the twins be doing now, you wonder.

The bog is nearing. Though it's now referred to as Tabby's Mire, the wetland was once named for the town's proprietor; a man with the surname 'Jaspers.'

A thick spatter of taupe phlegm hits your face as a bit of bog 'water' sloughs off the flourishing moss drapery. This place always gave you the jitters -- even before the great pussycat massacre.

"Okeedokee! Where to look first..."

The object enshrined within the twins' velveteen purse looked to be a badly shriveled snake, or slug perhaps. There are minuscule, spongy protrusions dotting its presumable underbelly, but you think they're merely mold.

Naturally, the bog is a perfect starting point -- not only because of its feline connections -- but also due to its rich population of wriggling, wormy creatures.

It's been a long time since you gathered the audacity to visit this desolate old swamp, and you soon become lost in a labyrinth of unpleasant childhood recollections. 

There's the massive rock you were dared to wade out toward after the cat crisis. Authorities had deployed animal control services to locate and dispose of the corpses, but they'd inevitably missed a few. You remember the dreadful popping sensation beneath your toes as you accidentally tread upon a bog-softened kitten skull; your youthful weight a sufficient crushing force. 

That's one memory in a slurry of generalized trauma. You stopped going to the bog, even when encouraged by friends, at the age of thirteen.

Now you're twenty-two and the atmosphere is just as you remember it. Gloomy, sticky, and ominous. You watch carefully for an indication of crocodiles. There's a cave, obscured beyond a fundamental curtain of hanging moss set deep into the bog. It can be accessed by following a thin ridge of slick stone along one side of the wide, shallow pond. Inside the cave is a stretch of moist but solid ground, and a pool of dark water that is narrow; yet perilously deep. None of the town's residents know where the tunnel of water leads, or how its existence is sustained. 

A vagrant once made his home in the cave. He disappeared when you were eleven years old. When you asked your father what happened to the old man in the spooky cave, he enraptured you with unrealistic and harrowing tales depicting the dangers of crocodiles.

Therefore, it's crocodiles you're afraid to encounter as you trace the slippery rock ledge to the lonely cave. It's crocodiles you're prepared to face as you enter the cave and peer into the cryptic depths of an unexplored waterway. You don't, for one second, expect a tentacle to spring from the tunnel, curl around your ankle, and sling you into the sunless corridor with such abominable, inconceivable speed.

 

***

 

Time is an elusive concept. It seems to you, that in the endurance of one swift second -- no, even more brief than that -- you were drawn into death. 

Your senses have changed. There is no light in this new area. Scents and textures paint an explicit dreamscape. The air is heavy; rank with a darkly sweet smell. You can taste it with each shuddering breath. A dim light flickers, remedying the intensity of your alternate senses. The weak glow leads you forward, into a nest of tiny, phosphorescent bulbs. You're terrified and curious. Steeped in the dangerous combination, you unsteadily reach out to wrap your hand around one particularly vivid nodule. It pulsates against your palm; warm, soothing.

Then you're suspended in the air. A cord of something hot and slimy is wrapped around both feet, forcing them tightly together above your head. Blood surges to your face, sending you into delirium. This room is alive. The creature, whatever it may be, spans the entire area. There are no walls or ground visible beyond the profound, amorphous entanglement of throbbing tentacles. The lights seize and roll about in their grisly sockets. Each one is an iris; dotted with narrow, cattish pupils.

You've solved the mystery.

It's your only thought as two massive tendrils swoop toward you, curling around your torso and arms, before flipping you upright. The change in position would be a comfort in another situation. Any amount of struggle is in vain. The creature is simply too massive -- too strong. You can only hope for an interlude of incredible luck; or a quick death.

The proboscis coiled around your legs twitches and unfurls itself, before splitting into two separate entities. A ribbon of slime spurts from the newly independent limbs and an odd keening noise alerts you to their excitement. One takes your right ankle and the other takes your left. In that moment, you're convinced they intend to rip you apart. Fortunately, the tentacles pull your legs open to a natural angle. You don't enjoy the vulnerability explicated in such a position. Especially when the aggressor is a creature that should not -- should never -- exist.

Stunned tears run down your cheeks. At least, you assume they're tears; until a gooey string of thick, blackish red liquid streams over your eye. Then you realize the 'tears' originate from your hairline. The monster wasn't careful in handling you. Blood seeps into the crack between your lips. It stains the tip of your tongue. In horror, and disgust, you open your mouth to spit. Wicked peels of inhuman laughter caress your body. Sound has become a physical sensation, and shock stills you long enough for an insistent tentacle to force itself between parted lips. 

Biting the limb achieves no goal. The creatures mangy, oozing pelt is impermeable. You cry in earnest as the bulb -- the eye -- of this specific tentacle quivers at the back of your throat. It can see inside you.

Warm streams of fluid gush from the pupil and into your stomach. You gag violently, thinking of pus; but the substance cannot be that. It's phenomenally delicious -- liquescent silk. The taste is comparable to nothing you've experienced on earth. 

Wait; earth?

You're still on earth -- still a member of the known realm -- right?

There's no time to contemplate your philosophical, or physical, location. The beast pumps verifiable cascades of its nutrients into your gut. It feels like you're being filled, stretched, and swollen from top to bottom. The vast globe of your belly is impressive; a taut, flesh-tinted balloon of heaving, swirling ichor. It presses against your internal organs, forcing a state of mortified arousal. Swarms of tentacles slide across your engorged body. Feet, legs, rear, arms, chest -- all bloated beyond the typical size. A particularly inquisitive extremity prods your pained gut, and you moan a desperate protest against the unrelenting tentacle in your mouth.

Two small figures stand on the ground. Gleeful, whispered sentiments echo in your ears and reverberate through your impossibly round stomach, riling its contents. 

"Thank you for finding our mother."

The torrential flood of creature-sap does not cease; if anything, it gains speed. You're not dead yet. The absurd swell of your abdomen hasn't burst, sending a spray of sopping guts in which to bathe the monster's colossal body. It intends to keep you.

Circulation returns to your formerly restricted ankles as the tentacles slide further up your legs. Maybe an explosion -- of sorts -- in inevitable.

Before your mind is lost, you notice a tiny whorl of glittering stars far, far below. There's an escape after all; it's one you'll never use. Two charming white kittens hop through the distant vortex; bidding you farewell.


End file.
